Cinderella
by Honour Society
Summary: Why? A question I ask, day after day, as I wait out my high school years here. In this hellish school where Prada and pearls go hand-in-hand with the school uniform. My name is Massie Block, social pariah and token poor girl. AU. T. Massington or Cassie?
1. Carded

**Disclaimer: **Nothing in this fic belongs to me, it is all the work of Lisi Harrison or Yoko Kamio's "Boys Over Flowers", which the plot is based off of. I also don't own any brands or people mentioned, thanks.

**Author's Note:**_ Complete AU Alert._This fan fiction is a sort of retelling of my best friend's favourite new Japanese drama series, Hana Yori Dango, (Roughly translated to Boys Over Flowers, but "Boys Before Flowers" works, too.) which takes place at a private school like OCD, but is a high school, co-ed and with some minor changes. I'm thinking about posting some background info on my profile. I dunno. Depends on how confused you dear readers are, I suppose.

**CINDERELLA**

_-A_ Clique _fanfiction written by Honour Society-_

_Why?_

A question I ask, day after day, as I wait out my high school years here. In this hellish school where Prada and pearls go hand-in-hand with the school uniform. Instantly, my lower lip puckers. I remember Alicia Rivera's response when I asked her (though I didn't mean to, honestly, it just slipped out) why she had to chemically straighten her hair, and wear one hundred thousand dollars of diamonds, and pounds of Sephora-bought makeup for _school_. Since when do itchy polyester kilts and diamond-encrusted headbands match?

_"Silly Massie,"_ Alicia had said with a cluck of her silver-spoon-fed tongue and a flick of her wrist, dripping with precious gems. _"People will see me, of course. It's natural for girls like us,"_she gestured towards her little group of devoted rich-bitches, Kristen Gregory and Dylan Marvil, _"to want to be seen looking perfect. While girls like you…poor ones, that is, just don't seem to care." _

I sat there, at my desk, in the boring classroom of my homeroom teacher, Ms. O'Brien, one of the weirdest women I've ever met (and, trust me, I've met a lot of them) who is known to just stalk around Octavian Country Day School in her stocking feet. Our school is known all around New York, all around America even, as an institute high in stature, social standing and education. Last year, fifty-six percent of our graduates went on to Ivy League schools and this year the statistic is supposed to be even higher than that.

And where do I, Massie Block, fit into all of this? The ninety-second percentile in all my classes, constantly switching between the top four spots, but also one of the least popular. Not that I really notice. Well, okay, I do notice. I notice how no one sits beside me, the poor girl (in all aspects of life), at lunch, while I unpack the lunch box Mom so painstakingly puts together for me. I notice how my desk seems to have a nasty smell around, so people pointedly ignore me. I bet, that in my senior year here, no one will even know my name.

_"Macy _who_?"_ Alicia Rivera will sniff as my name's called during graduation, possibly with a long list of achievements following behind it, to Kristen or Dylan._ "Does she even go here?" _

_"Yep."_Kristen Gregory, the "smart" one, will nod her head vigorously, like she belongs in a Pantene commercial._"Since freshman year, in fact. That's Massie Block."_

_"Gawd, really? The whole time? I never even noticed her…" _Dylan, the flighty, weight-obsessed one, will giggle at her own stupidity, while perhaps sucking in her nonexistent stomach pudge._ "Who would've thought?"_

I snapped out of my reverie at the sound of Ms. O'Brien's feet, her skin covered by only flimsy green tights, slapping against the floor. You'd think that, at a posh school like this, wearing shoes would be encouraged. But, Ms. O'Brien is an Irish-imported beer heiress. And also a Briarwood-Octavian alumnae. So, with a flick of her Daddy's credit card and a new soccer field, her position as tenth-grade homeroom and ninth- and tenth-grades English teacher materialized. Funny how money can, truly I tell you, buy _everything_.

"Present." I raised my hand up, half-heartedly, as attendance was called. No heads turned in my direction. No chairs scraped back so someone could say "Ehmagawd! How was your summer?" Nothing. Just white noise. Ms. O'Brien nodded her head, dipped it really, as if confirming that I do exist. I sighed and laid back in my chair, my eyes blinking faster now. It's the first day of school so we have homeroom all morning, which basically consists of "catching up," and "getting to know each other." As if everyone doesn't already know every dirty little secret. What's that saying? Gossip spreads like wildfire? Or is it "bad news?" Either way, both gossip _and _bad news have a habit of travelling at rapid-speed here.

"I'll be right back, sweethearts." Ms. O'Brien smiled, each word oozing false compassion, which sounded even stranger in her heavily-accented English. "I've just got to grab some coffee from the staff room. First-day-back jitters and all."

It seemed as if Ms. O'Brien hadn't even been out of the room for a minute, when a guy, dark-haired and scrawny, possibly in a semi-well known garage band, stood at the threshold of the room. His face was pale, too pale, as if he'd just seen a ghost. Or worse. He knocked on the hollow-sounding door.

Now everyone turned, but not to gawk at me, to gawk _past _me, rather. The guy — named John, I think — came into our classroom soundlessly. He brought a message: "A red card! A red card! The F4's given out another red card." John's voice is barely above a whisper, but everyone's hearts pick up pace. Wow. A red card? Good-golly-gosh, how scary! But it is. Kind of. When the F4, a name that no one really knows the meaning behind, though I could think up a couple hundred (fashious? Fickle? Foolish?), a group of Octavian's unfortunately rich and popular guys decide to break into your locker, leaving behind only a red notice with "Love, The F4," on it, you cry. You wish you were dead. You call your mom on your thousand-dollar cell phone and tell her you need to transfer — immediately. And you do.

This is the way of F4. Driving guys (it's never happened to a girl yet) who'd done something they deem "wrong," out of the school is their thing. I hate them for it. Sometimes I wish I could just punch all of them. But especially the leader of F4...and our school, Derek Harrington. He's always acting as if an invisible crown is setting atop his perfect little head. Oh, if I could get a shot at him...I'd teach him a thing or two.

As if anyone, let alone me, would be able to get close enough to the F4 to throw a punch. It's almost like they have an invisible force field (God, that sounded totally lame.) surrounding them, so all the "Ehmagawd!"s of Alicia's (ironically?) self-named Pretty Committee and the hoots of everyone else go unheard. I don't think they've ever even seen me. Seen through me? Sure. Everyone seems to.

My eyelids started to droop shut. Ms. O'Brien had yet to return so my well-heeled classmates were slowly starting to trickle out of the room, like molasses, looking for the boy who'd gotten the red notice this morning. I placed my head on my faux-wooden desk, my dark hair fell naturally as a blanket over my face. No one noticed me. Or so much as blinked in my direction. Still nothing. I sighed and allowed my tired eyes to close all the way. _Why...??_

I didn't realize I had been sleeping until I felt a faint tug at my shoulders and a barely-above whisper-level voice saying: "Hello? You're Massie, right? Are we supposed to be leaving now?"

"What?" I looked up. Oh. _Her_. Claire Something-or-other? She just transferred here from someplace in Florida. Miami, maybe? Or someplace fancy like that.

"Um, are we supposed to be going now?" She repeated, trying to make it clearer for me, but she was so nervous that everything sounded like she was second-guessing herself.

"Oh, yeah. I guess." The room was completely empty. Everyone had gone for lunch, apparently. Or maybe just to beat up the kid who got the red notice. Oh? Did I neglect to mention that once a red notice is given, the entire school takes it upon themselves to make the kid's life a living hell. Just because F4 said so. Idiotic, I think so.

"Um. So. Where's the cafeteria?"

I rolled my eyes dramatically. "This way." I pasted an enthusiastic smile on my face, as though I'd just _looovee _to show fresh-faced, innocent Claire to the cafeteria. Can't she just follow the heard of hungry tenth-graders?

"Cool. Um, thanks? For showing me the way, I mean. But sleeping in class was pretty cool too. And Ms. O'Brien didn't even come back, by the way. Does she go for coffee and never return often?" Her ocean-blue eyes were just so watery and full of empathy that I had to nod. It was common knowledge that Ms. O'Brien was the "easy" homeroom teacher. She spent all homeroom class talking about the latest episode of _Grey's Anatomy _and all English discussing Gossip Girl books and reviewing simple verbs. Everyone got automatic As, for doing next to nothing.

"No big deal." We rounded the corner to the cafeteria and even I had to gulp. It never failed to look state-of-the-art and huge. Most of the six-person tables were all filled up, some students had already cracked open homework from their homeroom teachers to get a head start, and I idly noticed no one was sitting alone. That would soon change. Or so I thought.

"Where do I...?" Claire waved her pink wallet with the initials "CSL" hand-sewn on it in paler pink thread in the air.

I pointed to the line-up for the servery and headed to my usual table, as far away from Table 18, the F4's hangout. Claire nodded and turned around slowly.

"Wait!"

I turned back around, sighing. What now?

"Save me a spot, 'kay?"

So many people would be disappointed that they couldn't sit with the unknown, social pariah Massie Block at lunchtime today. Whatever would I do?

"Sure."


	2. The End of Innocence

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the companies/brands/people/bands/whatever, that I mention in this fic. Nor do I own the two "ah-mazing" (God, I hate saying that) series of which this fan fiction is based: _The Clique _and _Boys Over Flowers_.

**Author's Note:** I'm still not sure whether this will be Cassie or Massington. I love both ships! I'll hear your opinions out, though. Reviews, as always, are welcome. Especially long, rambling ones. Wink, wink.

**I hate when I do this. I wrote this chapter forever ago and I completely forgot to post it! Argh! Well, here it is: **

**Chapter Two **

Cafeteria trays, filled with untouched pricey carb-filled food that no one ever ate, clattered around me, rising above even the constant high-pitch in sickly sweet Claire Lyons' voice. We'd barely been eating for ten minutes and already I could see that she would be sticking around for a while. After breathlessly describing every member in her family, her old home in Florida (which turned to not be in Miami at all, but some private island the Lyonses owned, just off the Keys)

"Tell me," Claire's voice suddenly turned low and raspy, making it clear to me that this was a demand not a request, "all about the F4."

I sighed and leaned back in my stiff, high-backed chair. Every ounce of me wished she wouldn't fall into the fray and become another F4 fangirl. We'd been getting along pretty good, not "swimmingly," as my mother, Kendra, would say, but pretty damn close. If she become all spaced-out and glassy-eyed while I described their unfortunate good looks, bank-breaking trust fund, life without rules and endless supply of older girlfriends, I knew I'd excuse myself and go eat lunch in the infirmary with Nurse Adele.

"What's there to tell?" I retorted, scoffing a bit. So Little Miss Florida was another F4 fangirl? We already had enough of those.

"Start with the basics." Leaning in on her elbows, not bothering to roll up the sleeves of her uniform blazer to keep them from getting scuffed up, she looked at me in the most heartbreakingly sweet way. "Please?"

What can I say? Puppy-dog eyes work on me. "Okay. The basics. As the name hints, there are four members of the F4: Derrick Harrington, Cam Fisher, Josh Hotz and Kemp Hurley. Kemp's the token pervert, whose made out with every socially acceptable girl at this school, her sister _and _mother; older ladies are his thing, but he dumps them like last season's Prada when they get too clingy. His parents are involved in mob dealings, some say that they have a trained assassin on their team, but that's probably just schoolyard gossip."

Even so, Claire still looks like a ghost has overtaken her and, for a moment, I swear I can hear her thoughts: _Ehamgawd, he's gonna kiss me and then kill me! Or worse, _hire _someone to kill me! I have to move. Right. Now. Florida, here I come! _

"Continue," she encourages, so I do.

"Josh Hotz is our baseball star, his dad is some famous pitcher or something. He keeps to himself, but he's a hard partier. Not that I've ever been invited to one of their infamous all-night raves. They rent out a whole club, but only invited twenty some-odd select people. Insiders.

"Cam Fisher. He's the heir to a huge computer business, but is totally enigmatic. He's a mystery alright. Even among his best friends, he keeps his lips sealed.

"And then there's," I paused for dramatic effect and lowered my voice down to an echoey whisper. "_Derrick Harrington_."

"Ooh," Claire whispered, as if even his very name is coolness in a bottle, wrapped with a bow and labelled neatly.

The two of us are a lot closer now, in a spatial sense of course. Her nose is a mere inch away from mine and our elbows are touching. I'm not big on human contact, but she's so sweet and innocent I can't move away.

No more explanation is needed, because, at that precise moment, the F4 descended down the spiralling staircases. Heads turned. Eyes brightened. Manicured fingers were brought to heads, combing through their blown-out locks; mascara wands and lip-gloss tubes were produced; uniform skirts were straightened. All the girls wanted a chance to be the first serious relationship for a member of the F4. Anyone would do, really, but Alicia had her eyes on Derrick. Of course. The leader.

They're perfect for each other really. Except he'll never have a girlfriend. He's partial to a throng of adoring admirers, rather than one "desperate clinger" as I'd overheard him say once. I hope that works well for the guy.

Breezing by girls and guys alike without a care in the world, was the F4. Everything about them was overpriced, ostentatious and…well…_perfect. _I noticed Claire perk up a bit when she saw them coming, "discreetly" she rifled through her raw leather handbag. She used a quick swipe of mascara on her blond lashes, stuffed the wand back in her purse and picked up her lunch tray.

"I'm just going to through out my trash, 'kay?"

As if she needed my permission. I shrugged, as if to say "_Whatever._"

And then — all in one swift motion — Claire's life as a nobody was over.

"Oh. My. God." Quaking with fear, Claire Lyons stared up in horror at Derrick's uniform blazer, which he'd thrown over a completely non-uniform band tee.

"What's your name, blondie?" Derrick asked, his every breath dripping with venom. He smirked.

Claire managed to choke out "Claire…Lyons…"

"You're new here, aren't you babe?" His smirk only become more devilish as time wore on.

"Yes…"

"Then I suppose no one's told you the rules yet."

Biting her pale pink lip, Claire stutters, "W — Wh — What rules?"

"The unofficial rules of OCD, of course!" His voice raised to an unnaturally high level. I sat up straighter in my chair, using my height advantage over the petite young things of OCD to search for a teacher, a mediator. No one's there.

"Perhaps," Derrick said as he dramatically drew a finger to his lip, in contemplation. "I should give you the benefit of the doubt. Seeing as it's your first day here."

Claire looked up at him with wide puppy dog eyes, like he was her saviour. I noticed Cam recoiling in the background; frowning upon Derrick. The other boys of F4 just seemed bored. She nodded her head profusely, biting her lip harder than I thought was humanly possible.

In a simple matter of seconds, the usually rowdy OCD café had become utterly silent. As if a ghost had stolen everyone's voice. I hesitated, looking around one more time for a teacher before I stood up.

My chair squeaked annoyingly on the marble floor. Some heads turned in my direction; most stayed firmly on Derrick and Claire, though. I recalled all the days I'd turned my head away; averted my eyes from the scenes of textbook bullying that surfaced. I recalled all the times someone I knew had their life turned to hell, and moved away from OCD.

I wouldn't — nay, couldn't — do that for my first new friend at school.

"Stop," I commanded, my voice not even cracking. Derrick's dark chocolate eyes flickered over to me, his expression unreadable.

"So the newbie has a friend!" Josh chimed in, punching Kemp in the arm. My eyes narrowed, I turned to Derrick.

"Please stop."

"Oh. You want me to," he feigned a look of innocent confusion, "_stop_?" I nodded, rolling my shoulders back.

He chortled a little laugh. "As. If."

"Is that your final answer?" I asked, feeling a little sassy. He smirked, rolling his eyes as if to say "_Obv-iously_."

And with that, I punched the most popular guy in school straight in the eye socket.


	3. Planning

**Author's Note: **Thanks Hannah for pointing out my error before! To anyone who noticed that, Massie's father is still William, her mother is still Kendra. Sorry for the confusion! After the amazing response last chapter, I had to get this one out!

The Clique Movie trailer is supposed to be released with the Gossip Girl s1 DVD!

I'm leaning towards Massington for the pairing, but don't expect smooth sailing. There'll probably be a couple Cassie bumps along the way. However, vote on your fave ending pairing. Cam or Derrick??

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _The Clique_, _Boys Over Flowers, _nor do I own any brands, people, companies featured in this fic.

**Chapter Three**

Without so much as a glance over my shoulder, I took off running: out of the café, through the winding hallways, and out the fire escape to my own personal escape. The balcony had a decent view, if only because of the landscaping staff OCD paid for. A cloudless sky greeted me, but I thought a dark, gloomy one would more suit my mood.

Metal staircases led both directions: up and down. I decided to stay stationary, though. Well, as stationary as someone rapidly pacing about could be. That F4 just makes me so mad!

Even after everything that had happened that day, I could still enjoy my special, secret place. Nothing all that bad can happen here. I kicked off my saddle shoes, pulled off my knee-high socks and climbed up on the metal railing. Swinging my legs, I wondered whatever had happened to Claire. She'd probably run out not long after me. At least, I hoped she had. Although Claire — and by association, _me — _was the first girl to ever be targeted by the F4, I knew they weren't above making her life miserable. Or even beating her up.

_It. Was. Just. SO. Un_fair_! _Claire just had an accident; there was absolutely no reason for Derrick to go all creep-o on her. And now what? Forget me going through life at OCD, nameless, faceless. I had just become a somebody. Only, I was the somebody _nobody _wanted to be.

I leaned over the edge of the balcony, the tips of my non-polished toes peeking out from the railing. With a few quick glances outside to make sure no one was looking, I screamed as loud as I could: "THE F4 SUCKS! IF IT'S THE LAST THING I DO, I'M GOING TO MAKE THEM PAY FOR ALL THE AWFUL THINGS THEY'VE DONE!" And under my breath, I added, "Bastards."

**--**

He grinned wryly at watched in pure fascination as the long-limbed brunette stamped back up the steel staircase. He could still hear her mumblings and chuckled to himself.

Cam couldn't figure out why the rest of the F4 didn't like her. Hated her, even. She was pretty — _beautiful_ —. Smart. Quiet. Except… Part of him knew why she hadn't been "chosen" as Derrick or Kemp or Josh's flavour of the month. Or, if he was being honest, week.

Massie Block was the kind of girl who didn't take direction well. He'd occasionally seen the girl smirking through a teacher's long-winded lecture or biting her lip as one of Alicia Rivera's little crew told a joke. Cam didn't pay much attention to things like that with other girls. He knew that whatever club Derrick decided was "It," would be filled with a throng of F4-adoring ladies. Willing to hook up with any member of the elite clique.

Something was different about her.

Should he tell Derrick?

_No,_ he decided. _Maybe one day. But not now._

**--**

__

Fug it. Where's Cam?

Derrick Harrington, the most celebrated and popular in the entire freakin' school, was all alone. He hated being alone, just like he hated the dark and small spaces. Elevators, especially. His entire life, Derrick was constantly being cooed over by nannies, maids, friends, women. And now he was alone. Even worse — _deserted_. Cam had gone off to his Special Place. Kemp had found a new skirt to chase. Josh had decided to watch a pro baseball game in his family's VIP box.

And Derrick?

He told them that it was fine. _I don't care_, he'd told them. Even though he did. It bothered him immensely that the people he called his "best friends" didn't even know when he was feeling like shit.

Lunch hour was over. Around him, students were starting to trickle back up to their fifth period classes. He chose to ignore them, leaning over his Sidekick as if it was his lifeline.

He could feel the gazes of several girls on him. Sticking to his guns, Derrick simply brushed them off whenever a particularly bold one would swagger up to him, hips swinging like Naomi Campbell or someone.

A cute blonde who Derrick knew to be a varsity soccer player was hovering behind him. He covered the screen of his Sidekick with his left hand. A sigh escaped her pouty, lip-glossed mouth.

"I'm Erin." Her voice was sickeningly sweet. It made him want to barf. Couldn't this girl find someone else to sweet talk?

"Derrick," he muttered pathetically. _Of course she knows my name, stupid. _

"Of course I know your name, silly!" Giggling. Ugh. Would the torture never end?

Turning around, Derrick stared the rangy blonde down. He idly noticed that her eyes were blue. Very blue. She was cute. Acceptable. A brief memory of her father being a senator in Iowa or Idaho or I-something struck him.

"You going to Cloud Nine tonight?" he named a popular OCD hot-spot.

"Natch," she agreed, becoming more and more annoying by the nanosecond.

"Maybe I'll see you there."

"Maybe!" Erin squeaked, momentarily turning back to her lunch table to shriek in the general vicinity of her clique. "I'll see ya later, Derrington!"

Derrick groaned. He hated that name with a fiery passion!

**--**

"Ehmagawd!" Alicia turned to face Kristen and Dylan. "You will _nawt _believe this, but — " the self-proclaimed "Spanish beauty" paused for dramatic effect, "Derrington just asked out Erin Neilson!"

"No way!" Dylan responded. It was obvious the size-6 redhead didn't really care. She'd always been the outsider of the group of complete insiders, anyhow. Nothing seemed to phase her like it should and she loved burp jokes at more than a socially acceptable level.

However, her last name was still Marvil and her pale looks complimented Alicia's "natural" — _as if! — _tan.

"Something," Alicia's voice lowered to a stage whisper, "has _got _to be done about this."

"Oh, Gawd." Kristen Gregory's pale blond eyebrows knit. "Leesh has got a plan."

"She does?"

_I do? _Clearing her throat, Alicia felt her glossy brunette head nod along. "Yes. I do."

**Author's Note:**Pretty short. I know. Sorry. It was either this or wait another week. Reviews are plenty welcome! Did you mind the changing POVs-thing? Tell me. Please. Another Massie POV chapter will be up hopefully by the middle of next week. Perhaps I'll get it done this weekend if I'm determined enough.


	4. More Planning

** Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Clique, Boys Over Flowers, _or any brands mentioned. Also, I don't own Edith Wharton's "The Age of Innocence," as you may have already realized.

**Chapter Four**

While wiping down the shiny marble counter with her faded blue rag, Layne stifled a laugh. I recounted the events of school that day to her. Namely, me punching Derrick Harrington. Both of us were dressed in the standard waitressinguniform: black pants, white tops and an apron with the William's Diner logo emblazoned on the pockets. Layne's butt-length hair was pulled back into a migraine-inducing bun; a must when you worked around food. My own hair was similarly styled and I was struck by how alike we looked. Identical, even. Except for our eyes. No matter how hard we tried to pretend we were sisters, our eyes would always be different. Mine, a shocking shade of amber that belonged in the bottom of Chuck Bass' shot glass. Hers, a watery green that fit in with summer's dewy grass.

"Your school is so much more fun than mine." Layne's lips turned up into a positively Pretty Committe-esque pout. "Public education sucks."

"Hear, hear!" I closed my eyes and nodded my head profusely, as if I was singing a gospel song in church.

The diner was a ghost town. Dad would've been devastated if he saw, but he generally allowed Kendra, my mom, to run the family business. William was my father's name and his father's and multiple that by a thousand. To be truthful, the place was in horrid condition: faded awning, a patio overrun with feral felines, four measly booths and a bar-thingy attached to the counter, where the few costumers we got liked to sit and sip our overpriced, insta-coffee while repeatedly saying, "Isn't this place so quaint and authentic and genuine?"

"I cannot believe you punched Derrick Harrington," Layne said his name in a faux-posh accent that belonged in a Charlie Sheen sitcom rather than our life, "in his pretty little face!" Through maniacal snickerings, Layne managed to choke out, "You know you're practically dead now, right?"

Until then, I hadn't realized I wasn't alive. I checked my pulse. Steady.

And then it hit me. The F4. Red notices. My life as a no one was officially over. Hello, notoriety. Is this what it felt like to be R. Kelly? Then again, punching the most popular boy in school was hardly equal to child porn charges. At least, not by any _normal _standards. If only OCD was a normal school.

"I," (dramatic pause) "don't fricking care that the F4's ordered a mob hit on me. In fact," (another dramatic pause) "I couldn't care less."

"Well that's good," Layne said, good-naturedly, an easy smile playing on her ChapStick'd lips. "'Cause I think they're here."

I spun around on the soles of my New Balance sneakers, something that I knew would scuff Kendra's recently-waxed linoleum floors and would quite possibly get my head bitten off in the foreseeable future. "What?"

Peeking through the foggy window, was: Josh, looking ruddy-cheeked and unnaturally sunny in his Dodgers cap; Kemp, biting his lips which looked kind of "kissing swollen" (or at least that's what those YA novels say. I don't know from experience. My lips are one hundred percent virgin.); Cam's earphone-clad self looking..._curious_; and the great Derrick Harrington. Looking...completely unreadable.

It's Kemp who initially meandered his way over to the clearly marked entrance. Gulp. They're going to kill me _here_? In front of Layne and all these cust — _Oh wait. The place is completely empty. _

Face down — _Wowee! Aren't these shoes loverly and interesting and good lord, what is that stain from? _—, I traipsed clumsily over to the table they chose; the one with the best view of passers-by and the other "quaint, authentic" shops across the street. Did they come here for me? Or is the universe playing a horribly mean trick on me?

"May I take your orders?" I muttered, the words jumbling together like some kind of impossible Facebook word game. I don't meet their gazes. _Focus on the shoes, Massie. Look down! Down! _

"I'll have..." The sarcastic voice stopped. I looked up. I had to.

"Yes?" I prompted, my eyes locking onto those of Mr. Sarcastic, no matter how much my brain was willing them not to.

"Actually, I've suddenly realized I'm completely not hungry at all. Good bye."

And with that, Mr. Sarcastic, _Derrick Harrington, _set aside the laminated menu and power-walked out of the diner, the other guys trailing behind him like laptops, alternating between wild grins and bemused smirks. _Well, then. _

**--**

_Forty minutes earlier... _

"Gin!" Kemp pronounced, dropping his hand of cards with a proud, toothy smile. Groans rippled through the round table like roars. Kemp Hurley had never met a card game he couldn't dominate at. A heredity trait, no doubt.

"_Kcuf._" Josh's own hand fell to the floor as his phrase was met with complete confusion.

"Explanation," Cam demanded, his voice barely above its usual whisper. He left his cards face-up. Derrick smirked in satisfaction. Cam had crap cards, anyway.

"K-C-U-F," he spelled out his earlier word. Similar confusion. "Man, it's the f-bomb backwards! The Dad is all on some religious kick. No swearing. New Hotzhouse rule. There's a Swear Jar and everything, like some Bible Camp or whatever."

"A Swear Jar?" Derrick repeated, incredulous. He hadn't seen his mom in weeks; never met his dad. There had never been many rules at the Harrington household besides Lucy Harrington's One Golden Rule: Don't be an idiot. She figured that covered all the bases and the rule was established when Derrick's older sister, Penny, was eight or so. Ever since then, Derrick had learned how NOT to be an idiot. Which basically meant not failing school miserably, not disgracing the Harrington family name (_Seriously. What was this? _The Age of Innocence_?_) and getting into an Ivy League.

Josh simply nodded his floppy-haired head. No other words were needed.

"This game is so lame." Kemp leaned back in the high-backed chairs Derrick's mom's assistant had ordered from some antiques sale in England. Altogether, the four chair set was supposedly worth over four thousand dollars. Not including shipping and handling, of course.

"Agreed."

"Agreed."

All eyes zoomed to Derrick's. He rolled them pointedly. "Agreeeeed."

"Where to?" Josh shot up like a rocket, grabbing his messenger bag and looping it around his neck. "Your house is awesome, but _c'mon_," he grinned, "we're the F4. We're young. Rich. We must have better places to be."

"Actually," Kemp contradicted, without looking up from his jet-black, limited-edition Sidekick, "we don't."

"I have an idea." Derrick's face lit up. He knew the perfect thing to do.

"Cool."

"I'm game."

Cam sighed, apparently he was no big supporter of Derrick Harrington's "ideas." "Doesn't seem like I really have a choice."

--

"That's kcuf-ingawesome." Josh was in awe. Derrick's plan was flawless. Foolproof. And it sounded like a decent distraction from schoolwork and the crumbling marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Hotz.

"Are you positive that's the, uh, _right way to solve this_?" Cam, needless to say, was _not _in awe. Derrick's plan was seriously flawed. A fool's idea. It just sounded like a distraction from schoolwork...albeit one that would end up harming someone.

"Definitely. When have I ever not solved a problem the right way?"

"This morning," Kemp listed, "yesterday, last week, tomorrow, tonight—"

"Okay. So maybe in the past my plans haven't been perfect, but this one is. Oh, and we're here. Time to scope the prey in it's natural environment."

"This is kind of like that movie, you know? _She's Got That_? _She Is That_?"

"You mean _She's All That_?"

"Cam, I don't even know how you remembered that. But this is completely different. Let's go."

**I know DH is seeming like the bad guy, but isn't that what everyone thought of Chuck the first few epis of Gossip Girl? Massington fans, hold your Thoroughbred horses. Sorry for the filler chapter; I "pinkie-promise" some drama to come. **


	5. Blushing and Winking

**Disclaimer: **Don't own. Anything.

**Chapter Five**

For the next week, I fell into a pattern. It wasn't exactly a "new pattern." I guess the proper thing to say would be, I fell back into my old pattern. Each day I shuffled through school with my head done, biting my lip to suppress the comebacks that flooded my mind every time Alicia's Committee made some stupid remark. The F4 went back to ignoring me, or maybe the never stopped, and Claire stopped eating lunch with me. If only to protect her social standing.

Life sucks.

Of course, that was until I met the wrath of Alicia and her plans. The Pretty Committee's pranks were legendary; even I, a lowly scholarship student knew that. Every week or so, they would pull a prank that brought the principal to his Armani-suit-wearing knees, and left the rest of the student body in wide-eyed wonder. I oft wondered if Alicia just did this to try and attract the attention of one Derrick Harrington (who would laugh at the joke, along with the rest of us, but never recognized the self-proclaimed "Spanish beauty," for her outstanding work.

How I landed myself in this position, gazing up at the laminated red card which was taped to my locker, I'll never quite know. Not my brightest moment, I'd say, but then again, I didn't fully comprehend the bizarre situation I was in. Below the usual printed script, _Love, The F4, _was a single sentence in silver Sharpie.

_Don't fret, Block: I'm watching out for you. _

Who was it from?

Only the soccer boys called each other by last names... So, it had to be one of them, right? _Wrong, _a tiny voice sing-songed inside of me, _Maybe it's just some random who decided to scribble on your red card. _

As if the high-and-mighties of OCD would actually deign to touch a red card.

"Too bad."

At the sound of the only student's voice who spoke to me all week, I twisted around slowly, expecting one of the scholarships like me. Of course, I never in a billion years expected it to be the enigma known as Cam Fisher.

"Uh... Um, hey?" Major dork alert. I reddened under the harsh glow of the florescent lighting as I pulled a few textbooks off the top shelf of my locker with a snap. In the process the red card came tumbling down to the linoleum floor. I roughly placed the toe of my navy Converse over it. And crunched it into a tiny ball. Never one to litter, I picked up the ball and tossed it into the nearest garbage bin. _She shoots, she scores!_

"Nice arm," the blue-and-green-eyed boy remarked. I blushed. Couldn't help it. He blushed, too, for some reason I couldn't quite understand. "You better get to class, Amber, I don't want you to be late."

"My name's not Amber, it's _Massie_," I corrected, looking confused. They didn't even sound similar, how could he...?

"To me it is." He exaggeratedly winked before sticking the white headphone dangling from his neck back into his ear. He lip-synched in a completely adorable way before scurrying off to wherever his next class was.

He gave me a nickname.

He noticed my freaky eyes.

Sigh.

**-- **

It was gone. That's right; _gone. _

After my awkward run-in with Cam, I scurried along, with my tail firmly between my legs, to History class. Once there, as class had already started, I attempted to sneak in inconspicuously, but lately that hadn't been happening. Sparkling eyes followed me the moment I stumbled into the room. Subtle high-fives went around the Pretty Committe's table near the back of the room.

"Take you seat, Miss Block," commanded the teacher. He was of a fair height, about six-foot-one, with shaggy brown hair, horn-rimmed glasses and un-tan-able skin. He was also completely adorable in a totally geeky way. "As this is your first offence, I won't be calling home. Should this happen again, though, you won't be spared the detention and phone call."

I flushed a rosy tint found only in Tart cheek/lip stain bottles; couldn't help it. He was pretty cute.

Discreetly enough so my spoiled classmates couldn't catch it, one of his dancing brown eyes slid shut in a casual wink. My second of the day. Seriously.

"Um, Mr. Marks?"

I stood stock-still in the middle of the room, right where my desk and attached chair should've been.

"My desk is gone."

Snickers went up the room. I blushed again, this time under the stare of my peers. Still standing, several awkward moments passed before Kristen Gregory's nasal voice suggested something.

"I think it's outside." Her ice-blue manicured finger formed an arrow, which pointed right towards the wide bay window. There it was. My lovely, wooden desk looking absolutely out-of-place among the chirping birds, well-kept hedges and apple trees of OCD. With a sigh and a heave of my shoulders, I asked Mr. Marks for a hall pass. Pity in his eyes, he granted me one with a flourish of his large hand. I smiled doopily up at him.

Life really does suck sometimes.

And trust me, it only gets worse.

**A/N: _Short, I know. Review anyway?_**


	6. A Rain of Tears

**Disclaimer:** I own absolutely nothing.

**Chapter Six **

As usual, Claire was avoiding me like the plague. Occasionally, I'd catch a glimpse of her white-blond head ducking into the girls' washroom or her reflectively-glossy lips curling into a tight smile when a jibe was passed her way. Ever the innocent, Claire Lyons seemed to be the perfect target for the mockings of OCD's upper class. Innocence was out, and anyone with access to cable TV could tell you what was in. And that "in" thing was most definitely not Claire, no matter how much money Daddy had in the stock market or how heavy her mask of makeup was.

Claire sat alone at a lunch table. Just like me. It was pathetic, really. Before all of this, I had some friends in the fellow scholarship kids. We proudly mocked our superiors, joking about their platinum-highlighted hair and general air headedness. The Pretty Committee was a choice target of ours. They just...made it so easy. Of course, the F4 were taboo. Because, in the end, we knew our place in society. And we were hardly in the position to make fun of the boys who could make or break our high school careers. We just weren't.

Anyway, I guess all the weird events of late would've foretold this...lunch room debacle. But you know what they say: Hindsight is twenty/twenty. As for making choices, in the now, you could say I needed a big pair of hypothetical eyeglasses.

My bagged lunch in hand, I ambled on over to my old table. As per usual, it was empty. A ghost zone. No one dared cross a red card. It just wasn't done. As I was digging into my ham sandwich, the F4 breezed past in their usual couldn't-care-less manner. I won't lie; my breath was held. As soon as Derrick and his henchmen passed with nary more than a death glare, I returned to my food. I could deal with threats. I could deal with being friendless. I could deal with eating alone, walking home from school with my head held down, all of that stuff I could work with. As long as the F4 didn't make a move, didn't "pounce," so to speak, I was fine. I was. Absolutely. Even as the tears stinging my eyes were telling me different.

Even as Derrick's pointer finger was tracing Claire's delicate chin... Wait. What?

But there they were. Claire's watery blue eyes were glued to the floor. She looked abashed. Dressed in the OCD uniform, her pale hair held up with a tartan-print headband, she looked the part of the prep school brochure girl. I cringed internally. Wasn't it enough that the F4 was making my life near impossible? Claire and I weren't even friends and she was already getting harassed by the "Most Popular Guy in School"?

"Stop it!" As if my blood stream had been suddenly injected with a miracle drug, I bolted out my seat, deserting my lunch and garnering the wary stares of my peers. Fueled on, I power-walked to Derrick. He observed the scene I was making coolly. The smirk he wore on his face made me want to punch him again. But I'd already done that one. If only he'd learned his lesson.

"Stop what, Miss Block?" Derrick feigned the innocence only petite girls like Claire could actually posses. "I'm not aware I'm doing anything wrong."

My eyes rolled in perfect circles.

"'Aware' of 'anything wrong' did Mommy's lawyers teach you that?" I sneered at him. He seemed slightly taken aback, but pretty much unfazed. It was no secret that Derrick's mother ran the company; his dad had abandoned Derrick, his older sister Penelope (or "Penny," as she was called by people more social than I) and their mother.

A blow to his ego.

Everything was fair game.

Our verbal sparring continued for several minutes. Between the sharpness of my words and the casuality of his tone, you'd assume we were an old married couple arguing about drapes. But this was so much more than drapes. Oh, and the day I marry Derrick is the day that I die.

"This is pointless!" I squeaked, coming to the end of my one and only straw. "I am so tired of you and the rest of this school full of lemmings! You can all rot in hell for all I care! Furthermore," I continued, on a roll, "Claire Lyons, you're either with me or against me. I'm sorry you got dragged into this, but obviously your Plan A of ignoring me hasn't worked out so well. How 'bout we attempt Plan B, whatever that is?"

Meekly, Claire nodded. Her eyes were wide, her taut legs crossed demurely.

"You think you're better than us, huh?" A faux-Spanish accented voice asked in a clipped tone. Naturally, it was Alicia Rivera, in the very exposed flesh.

"If by 'us,' you mean 'you,' than my answer is yes." I smirked. Alicia's eyebrows took an elevator ride up her forhead. One of her patented disses was on its way, but I didn't care to stay.

I ran.

And ran.

And ran some more.

I didn't stop until I'd reached the restaurant. Layne was there. The public school system had that day off.

By the time she pulled my to her chest, the tears were already falling. They didn't appear to be stopping any time soon.

"Massie," she cooed into my hair — still wet from the shower I'd taken that morning — "What happened? Claire? The Ugly Committee? The F4? Tell me."

Through the heaviest sobs I'd cried in a long time, I coughed out, "All of them and more."

It was then that my phone rang. One new text message. The kind person that she was Layne read it aloud to me:

**i kno i probly shouldnt B saying this all in a txt, but i hv 2. i'm leaving OCD. it sux. i hope we can part as friends, tho. maybe hang out sometime?? i'd like that. sorry for being a loser. -Claire **

Despite all the tears pouring down my face, I managed to smile bleakly. Putting pen to paper, or rather thumb to button, I typed a quick reply:

**I'll miss you. Your friend, Massie. **


	7. Terms of Endearment

****

sorrysorrysorry. i know that this is supersupersuper late but i hope it's worth it! i'm going to finish this a/n at the end of the chapter. so. without further ado…

**Chapter Seven**

--

__

Later that night…

--

I felt drained of everything. Blood, muscle tissue, bone, _everything. _I felt like a shell of my previous self. On the outside I was the same person - same in-need-of-a-trim dark hair, same heart-shaped face, same chipped nail polish, same dimples, same scary-looking amber eyes - but on the inside I was empty.

It was all because of an MIA Claire Lyons. I stayed up for hours, lounging around in my minuscule bedroom, awaiting her call. Or a text, even. Something to explain better than her broken up, grammatically incorrect, shaking fingers could ever provide me. It never came.

It didn't come at nine o'clock when I snuck some popcorn into my room.

It didn't come at ten o'clock when I watched, in a trance-like state, William Shatner seduce an alien vixen.

It didn't come at eleven o'clock when I re-painted my nails ice blue - like Claire's eyes, nails, and signature dyed-hemp bracelet - while re-reading a tattered James Patterson paperback. (For the record, they're never quite as exciting the second time around. I found myself skipping paragraphs, pages, to find the action.)

It didn't come at twelve o'clock when my brother knocked on my door - with the toe of his Converse, from the sound of it - and told me Mom said her moping was '_bumming her out.' _Quote-unquote. Yeah, my parents, who both went by their first names Kendra and William, were glorified hippies. Want to hear a secret? I was named after the state they conceived me in - gross, I know! - while doing some political protest crap. Massachusetts Block.

It didn't come at one o'clock when I finally clicked the Power button on my Dad's laptop - which I'd, er, _borrowed _a few days earlier.

And, of course, it didn't come while I fell asleep with my tired fingertips poised over the keys and a 'you will die on midnight...blah blah blah' chain message open.

--

"_Massie,_" Kendra said sharply.

I was startled and quickly opened my eyes. She was never 'sharp' with me or my thirteen-year-old brother. Kendra claimed one of her high points was the fact that she and William didn't believe in 'tough love' as an effective method of parenting. They were more the chocolate for breakfast, no Internet blocker types. Not that we minded.

Not. One. Bit.

But today was different.

Everything was different when it came to my too-expensive school and scholarship.

"Wake up." Her short fingernails dug into my shoulder. Like an uncomfortable massage. I shrugged them off and searched her ocean blue eyes for an answer. I found none.

"Okay, okay!" I raised my palms in an I-surrender! gesture. "I'm up!" I repeated this, "I'm up." In a far less groggy tone this time.

"That's good." In a huff, Kendra stormed out of my bedroom, not bothering to close the door.

Mentally, I asked, _What's up with her? _

There was no wise, all-knowing Inner Voice to answer me.

Whatever.

Idly noticing William's laptop was turned off and closed, I made my way over to my teensy tiny closet. From a beige-coloured hanger, I pulled out my wrinkled school uniform. Oh, well. There would be no time for ironing this morning. What time was it anyways?

Eight-fifty.

School started at nine.

I walked with Layne - she stopped when we reached the public high school - and it took twenty minutes.

Shit.

What a great start to a surely great day.

My own sarcasm made me smile darkly.

First, I closed the door. Little Brother usually had his pervy friends over before school and they didn't need a glimpse of the promise land. I quick-changed into my skirt and blouse. Forgetting the rule about 'closed-toed, dark-coloured shoes,' I slipped into a pair of Little Brother's boat-sized, scuffed, checkered Vans. It would probably earn me a 'responsibility slip' from a school official, but I didn't really care.

Then, I stuffed all the books, binders and pens I could possibly use into my messenger bag. Bag over my shoulder, I hopped out of my room, only pausing once in the kitchen to thank Kendra, give Little Brother and William kisses on the forehead and snatch a piece of buttered toast and a yogurt-dipped granola bar off their blates, before swiftly exiting the apartment.

I impatiently rode the elevator down with a sweet, cheek-pinching, cooing old lady - her hair still in hot pink rollers and no dentures in her mouth - and a shifty-eyed drug addict who mumbled gibberish under his breath. Or maybe it wasn't gibberish. Frankly, I didn't really want to know.

With a wave to the super - a size-twelve woman with a heart of gold and penchant for making incredible-tasting butter tarts - I shot out the revolving doors, only to come face-to-face with the first limo I'd ever seen. (Not counting the few times I'd flicked past a re-run of _Gossip Girl _or the tacky white ones at weddings.)

Wanna guess who greeted me with a crooked smirk and a mock-salute?

Derrick freakin' Harrington.

What did I say about having a great day?

"Derrick Harrington," I said coolly.

He gave me a strange look. "Massie Block."

"This is so weird," I mumbled under my breath, tucking a wisp of hair behind my ear - oh, great. I forgot to brush my hair. It probably looked like a wavy, kinky, knotted mess. _That's ggggrrrreat. _I beat the Frosted Flakes tiger never had a bad hair day in his entire life.

"Not for me." His grin widened.

Gesturing to the slick, black vehicle behind him with his thumb, he asked, "Wanna hitch a ride, darling?"

It was like signing a contract with the Devil.

But I was running really late and...

There was no time to read the fine print.

As sweetly as I could, I said, "Only if you promise not to call me 'darling' ever again."

"Deal."

"Deal," I repeated.

As gentlemanly as I'd ever seen him, he held open the door for me as I ducked inside it.

Everything about the interior was as sleek as the exterior. Leather seats that felt like clouds. A cooler stocked with what I could only imagine to be the best of non-alcholic and alcoholic beverages available to humankind. High-quality speakers surrounded us, but no music played. Only the soft tinkling of white noise.

He slid in next to me.

"I'm sure you're just _dying _to know what's brought me to this neck of the woods."

I rolled my eyes. "Let me take a guess." I brought a finger to my chin and pretended to think long and hard. "The stalking of innocent young girls?"

"Wrong." He made a low, guttural sound. It was vaguely like a game show buzzer. "It's you, my dear."

"Hey." I frowned. "What did I say…?"

"You only excluded 'darling.' Are there any other words you'd like to wipe from my vocabulary?"

"Yes." I nodded my head vehemently. "Any term of endearment."

"While, I guess that leaves only a few words." He smirked. Again. I rolled my eyes. Again.

"And what would those be?"

"Will. You. Go. On. A. Date. With. Me?" He said each word slowly, drawing out the syllables. But the meaning was clear.

Derrick Harrington, profession jerk, womanizer and trust fund baby, wanted to go on a date with me.

Hell, no.

--

**hello again. i have a question for you. i like your opinions, because you are all veryveryvery genius-smart girls. what should massie's brother's name be? i haven't picked one yet. you guys can. just send in your choice with your review. (btw, that's me-speak for REVIEW, PLEASE?!) **


	8. Yes, No, Maybe So

**This chapter is for you, Hannah. Only you - and select others - will know why… Can you spot the secret Dernier Cri-related goodness?**

--

**Chapter Eight**

Except my head, my sensible head, didn't quite agree.

I'd never gone on a date before. Never had a 'real' first kiss - not like in the movies. I'd awkwardly pecked Chris Abeley's cracked, dry lips on a dare - I never turned one down. Once, I'd even kinda sorta made out with Dempsey Solomon in middle school. But I'd never had the romance, the longing, the stolen glances, the cheek brushes.

Which was why my reasonable, logical brain was disagreeing with my maybe-Cam-liking heart. Because Cam _hadn't _asked me out. _Derrick _had. And he was, no doubt about it, _hot. _His shaggy blond hair, his puppy dog eyes, his abs-hugging non-uniform tee. I was so glad he wasn't Edward Cullen at that moment, because my thoughts kept going on and on and _on. _For your sake, I won't repeat them.

So I said…

"Oh. Okay. I guess."

Incredulously, his eyes narrowed. His lips quirked upwards. "You guess?"

I half-shrugged and repeated my earlier statement, "I guess."

This seemed to frustrate him even more. Several times, he crossed and uncrossed his long, lean, soccer-toned legs. I'm sure I heard a muttered curse word. Then, he stretched out a never-worked-a-day-in-his-life arm and swung the mini-bar door open. Without asking me if I'd like anything - I had, after all, only inhaled a piece of burnt toast and a Quaker's bar for breakfast - he pulled out a Perrier. I'd never had it before. It was expensive, fancy-schmancy, imported water. But it was still _just_ water.

"You want?" He took a long chug from the green glass bottle before turning the probably spit-covered thing towards me.

"No thanks." I wrinkled up my nose. "Your lips touched it."

He chuckled and whispered, "They've touched a lot of things..." His low almost-growl made every tiny hair on my neck stand on end, like soliders, preparing for battle.

I covered my ears. "Gross!" I whisper-yelled back. Why we were whispering, I'll never know, because a bullet-proof wall blocked us off from the black-hat-clad driver.

Derrick now roared with laughter.

Great.

Derrick Harrington thought I was hilarious.

My life-long dream had been fulfilled. I would die a happy, happy girl.

I then realized I'd forgotten my favourite navy peacoat at home. A frown coloured my features. It was really cold outside. And in here, too. Did Mr. Preppy Pants turn on the A/C or something?

I shivered.

"Cold?" he asked with his usual grin. He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "I can warm you up."

"No, thanks," I politely declined. "I'm good. Is the air conditioning on?"

"Yep." He brushed some gold hair out of his caramel-y eyes. "What can I say? I'm a warm-blooded animal."

"Will this torture never end?" I scooted as far away from him as I could and leaned up against the tinted window. My nose was pressed against it. I could see passing Bentleys and BMWs, but none of them could see me. Weird.

"Nope," he said casually, swivelling sideways to look out his own window. "Did I neglect to mention that we're going to Disneyland?"

Sarcasm. Fun.

"Lovely." I grinned through tight lips. "I've always wanted to go."

He looked utterly shocked, confusing lining his face. "You mean..." His voice trailed off, but he picked up. "You've never been before?"

"Never."

"Wha? That's just..." Derrick shook his head. "Wow. Never been to Disneyland, Block? That's absolutely..."

"Forgot your thesaurus, Harrington?" I grinned, teeth showing this time. "You're having a little trouble finishing sentences. And 'wow' isn't exactly the most unique adjective."

This time, it was Derrick's turn to roll his eyes dramatically. "No, I-"

The driver cut him off with the telltale sound of a forced cough. "We're here, Master Harrington."

Under my breath, I asked Preppy Pants, "People really talk like that? Seems a little too England circa 1750 for Westchester."

He elbowed me. "C'mon, Madam Block. Don't want to be late for homeroom, huh? Can't have a single blemish on your record?"

I pouted.

He continued on, unfazed. "I bet you've never skipped a day in your life."

I cleared my throat and pointedly avoided his soul-searching eyes. "Maybe, maybe not."

"Let's skip."

"No way." He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off, drawing my finger to his lips. Derrick looked surprised, his eyebrows hitting his hairline. "Never in a million years. Never ever. And especially not with you." I removed my finger quickly - who knew where those lips had been, what they had touched?

I opened the door for myself and exited with as much - or as little - grace as possible.

"Nice panties, Block!" he called from behind me, just loud enough for the Pretty Committee and the hordes of well-groomed boys and girls tapping messages on their cell phones to hear.

Pig.

--

I sat through homeroom and my next two classes - English and History - with a glazed-over expression on my face. No one had done anything to me that morning - no taunts, teases, elbows-in-the-gut, _nothing - _it was like my red card had been revoked. Except that never happened. The receiver of the red card would switch schools - usually to Briarwood or Grayson Academy - before the bullying got too bad.

Maybe Derrick had called it off?

On the other hand, no one was going out of their way to talk to me, like they would if they knew Derrick had asked me out. Whispers and stares followed me everywhere, like a shadow.

Then it was time for lunch.

I found myself wondering, as I navigating the treacherous halls of OCD with my purple binder and brown-bagged lunch under my arm, if I would eat alone. Maybe I would eat with Derrick and Cam? I shook the idea out of my head. Derrick had probably come to his senses now - nothing would come of out 'date' I bet. And Cam? Well, there was nothing between us, really. Right?

RIGHT?!

--

At table eighteen, Alicia Rivera harrumphed loudly and crossed her arms over her chest - which only seemed to enhance her already _enhanced _cleavage. "I can't believe her! Massie Block? Getting a date with _my _Derrington?"

Comforting manicured hands smoothed back her glossy black hair and patted her toned forearms.

Dylan Marvil burped quietly - Alicia had never been tolerant of her brand of humour. "It's probably a mistake," she said, popping a salad wrap into her heavily-glossed mouth with two fingers. "Derrington would never ask _Massie Block _out."

"I bet it's a prank," Kristen suggested. The lithe, soccer-playing blonde took a hearty swig of her raspberry-flavoured VitaminWater.

"She's right," Dylan agreed. "It's most definitely a prank."

Alicia's dancing brown eyes narrowed - and stopped flickering. "That may be," she started, "but I'm nawt taking any chances. We are ruining that girl even if it, like, kills me!"

Dylan and Kristen gasped in unison.


	9. Treading Murky Waters

_I pinkie-promise - fricking a, I sound like Lisi Harrison! - The Date is coming next chapter. Just some more dramatic build-up. A filler/reflection chapter for your reading pleasure._

_**Nothing is owned by me. Not even Derrick Harrington, surprisingly enough.**_

_Big thanks to everyone who submitted a name for Massie's little bro! The winner is revealed... _

**--**

**Chapter Nine**

It was far too late. Again. What was with my sudden onslaught of insomnia? If Mom had to send Brother in to "tuck me in" again, all hell would break loose. And there certainly was a lot of hell going around.

It was about eleven, but my official curfew for school nights was ten-thirty. Seems early, I know. It's not a problem when your social life is the equivalent of Mulder and Scully's - cancelled. Of course, there was one red circle on my calendar this month. In pen, I'd make a messy loop around Saturday's - tomorrow's - date.

My date with...

Gah. I can't even think it!

Derrick Harrington.

All the lights were lit outside my bedroom. Immediately after school, I'd changed into a pair of camo-print cargo shorts and a loose-fitting, peach-coloured tee from American Eagle. My outfit was nothing special - especially when compared to my peers' haute couture, but it was comfy enough. I shrugged when I passed my reflection in the mirror. Shoulder-length hair, freaky eyes, translucently pale skin. Tall by some standards, short by others, normal height by most.

Over all, I was completely underwhelming.

What would a guy who could have any girl in the school, the city, choose boring old me?

_Whatever._ No time for self-pity now. I exited my bedroom, terry cloth bath robe slung over my shoulder, and zipped into the single bathroom. I hoped Brother hadn't used up all the hot water. My fingers were numb; they shook when I removed the elastic from my dark-coloured hair. Calm down, I told myself.

I locked eyes with the girl in the mirror. Me. Derrick wants you. Cam might like you - or at least tolerate you. What's wrong? Why so gloomy?

I looked away. Even if I was a-okay in the Guy Department, the number of giggling girlfriends ready to gossip, mock the new Teen Vogue and braid each others' hair was notably low. And by "low," I meant zero. Claire had transferred. I saw Layne after school, but even her protest- and Manic Panic-loving self couldn't help me from nine-to-three.

I tore off my top, shorts and underwear clumsily. The tub was already filled with murky-looking water and scented bubbles. Relax. Without bothering to stick my big toe in to check the temperature, I hopped in.

And, holy shit, was it ever freezing!

Brrr... My teeth clattered loudly. Oscar Sherman Block! You shall pay for using up all the hot water! And people say it's just a girl-thing. Yeah, right.

Hands clutched around my shoulders, I listed all the things that had gone wrong this term.

1. My sour friendship with Claire.

How could I fix this? I'd set up an opening for her - she'd chosen not to reply. Not my fault. Then again, during her brief stay at OCD, I hadn't exactly been the chairperson of the Welcome Committee. I think that's actually Kristen Gregory's position, strangely enough - seeing as she's part of the least welcoming cliques on campus.

Brow set in determination, I swore to myself I would look up her address through Facebook. I hoped she hadn't moved yet. That would suck. Big time.

2. Cam.

What the hell happened with us? First, I think he might like me. All of a sudden, he's back to being Mr. Enigma. Jeez. Boys. They suck, also.

3. THE PRETTY COMMITTEE! The Fannish hoor and her backup dancers!

Ugh.

I sunk lower into the water.

Last year, I had just coasted through school, unnoticed and a billion decibels below their radar. Okay, with a minor comment here and there about my lack of designer duds. Since we all wore matching uniforms - except for the F4, of course - it was impossible to tell that my father wasn't an oil heir or that my mother wasn't a debutante.

Now, my scholarship status was written all over the walls of the second-floor girls' washroom. 'Derrick is slumming w/ macy block!!," much?

4. Harrington. Derrick Harrington.

No more thoughts needed to be wasted on this jerk. Even if he was gorgeous and glorious - and, okay. Stop, Massie. Your inner dialogue is starting to sound eerily reminiscent of Bella Swan's.

I let my eyes drift closed, the procession of names and mistakes lulling me into a deep state of REM sleep.

--

"Massie! Get out!"

Ugh.

Wh-at?

Still groggy, I blinked at the pool of murky water I was wading in. Thankfully, my head was above the water. I lifted a leg. Examined it. Good God. I was like Prune Woman or something! Here to save the world from firm skin!

"What time is it?" I mumble-shouted back at Brother.

"Like..." He paused, then finished, "Nine-ish?"

Frick- I had stayed in a tub of my own filth all night long? Gross. Immediately, I stood up, sending a wave of blurry water over my pale legs.

"I'm coming!"

Quickly, I ran a pink terry-cloth towel up and down my legs, arms, stomach. Through my knotted and tangled hair. I changed into yesterday's clothes, even though I can feel a layer of grime and sweat. I shuddered slightly; wrinkled up my nose like Claire used to.

_Claire._

A knot, much like the ones in my hair, formed in the darkest part of my stomach.

_Cam._

A blush spread across my cheeks - grazing my nose, touching my lower eyelashes.

_Derrick._

A smile found its way into the firm line that is my mouth.

_The Pretty Committee._

I gagged slightly.


	10. The Date or Lack of One

**_Still not mine. I don't own any brands mentioned within, either. _**

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**I mean it.**

**Chapter Ten**

It was raining. Not the kind of light, romantic drizzle you'd expect on a Sunday morning in late fall, but more of a soaking through my windbreaker, re-tangling my hair kind of torrential downpour.

Honestly, I'd tried to dress up. I wasn't, like, wearing a micro-mini dress or anything (no way, no how) but I'd put forth an effort, at least. My hair was pinned up with a silver clip. I wore my best pair of jeans and a lace top, tucked-in, collar perfectly in place. I'd even stuffed a pair of Kendra's silver metallic flats into my messenger bag on a whim.

My feet were, of course, stuffed into whale-printed rain boots from J. Crew.

I had a terrible taste in my mouth, though. Even if the caked-on layers of Revlon concealor hid my under-eye circles and the red grooves in my cheeks, nothing could take away the taste of Honey Nut Cheerios and mint toothpaste combined. So. Gross.

I was walking down the street. Every so often, I'd see a glossy-haired girl toting a huge purse and a just-as-huge latte. OCD girls and guys were notorious for hanging out in this part of Westchester - the downtown core - even if their lavish McMansions were further upstate.

--

Derrick Harrington stood, shivering, outside the small cafe Massie had requested they meet at. His face was a sickly shade of pale, his lips almost blue. She was supposed to be here over an hour ago!

The worst part of it was everyone - even his own driver, Isaac, for God's sake! - was there to witness him being stood up by the most uncool girl in the entire school.

A raindrop trickled down his cheek.

Later, when asked, Saylene Homer would tell Aimee Colt that she had seen a single tear fall from the stony Derrington's melted-caramel eye. Aimee would shake her head, _As if. _Saylene would insist. The rumour would be started.

Derrington was lovesick, all right.

--

**LAYNE: How R U? **

I bit my lip. In one gloved hand, I had a cup of organic green tea. Not quite as sugar-filled as I would've liked, but CoffeeWorld was out of iced caps, and there was no way I was dropping eight bucks across the street at Starbucks for one.

With my pinkie finger, I typed out:

**MASSIE: so tired. late for The Date w/ dh. think he's gonna kill me? **

In less than three seconds, a ping signfied a reply was made.

**LAYNE: Nah. **

Phew.

**LAYNE: He'll prob hire a hitman to do the job. ;) **

Greeeeatt. Just great.

--

Three girls were huddled in the bright orange and sage green armchairs that were positioned in a circle at Starbucks. They each clutched Venti cups of espresso. Kristen's and Dylan's were topped off with plenty of whipped cream and chocolate sauce. Alicia's, however, was a bare as Derrick's butt during soccer season.

Slurping noisly, Kristen instigated the gossip-fest, "Did you see Cam Fisher on Friday?"

Alicia looked bored. Dylan looked intrigued.

When the blonde didn't respond, Alicia tapped her long manicured fingernails against the side of her white coffee cup. "And?" she pressed.

Kristen flipped her hair and leaned forward. With one surreptious glance over her shoulder to check for any nosy bystanders, she commented, "He was all buh-roody and stuff."

"That's it?" Alicia almost-screeched. All the dra-matic build-up for nuh-thing? Bo-ring.

"Not quite..." She smiled, glanced at Dylan, then revealed, "I think he's cuh-rushing on - get this -"

"Out with it already!"

"Hurry up!"

"Fine." Kristen rolled her blue-green eyes. "Claire Lyons."

"Did someone say my name?"

--

Another nervous peek at my Timex told me I was running way late. I'd stopped to have a quick chat with Layne via messaging. The just of the convo? "You're so lucky, Mass!" A lot of winking emoticons were used.

I was almost at the cute little cafe, called Mira's Place, when I spotted him. Mr. Marks. My English teacher?

Through the windows of the hole-in-the-wall bookstore he was strolling through, I waved enigmatically. When he caught my gaze, his striking brown eyes lit up. He smiled widely and mouthed something along the lines of, "_Come in!" _

I did, of course. A quiet tinkling of bells sounded when I pushed open the heavy glass door.

He was waiting there, a large stack of books under his arm.

"Hey," I said shyly, "Couldn't find anything, could you?"

Mr. Marks laughed. "Nope," he agreed. "Nothing."

"Um, if you don't mind me saying..." I hesitated, his eyes urged me on. "Don't teachers usually live really far away from the schools they teach at?"

"Not when they don't have cars." He just grinned.

Quizzically, I asked, "You don't have a car?"

Mr. Marks shook his head. "No." He smiled again. "I thought green was the 'new black'? Isn't it hip now to take the bus?"

"I'll let you in on a little secret." I lowered my voice. "It's not 'hip' to say 'hip.'"

--

All three, well-dressed, well-heeled girls turned around at the sound of a coy girl's voice. There she was. The same Claire Lyons. Her hair was a little more brassy, her bangs longer. She was still the same LBR, though.

They snubbed their noses at her. In one fluid motion, each Pretty Committee member raised their perfectly-slanted noses into the coffee-scented air.

"It's impolite to eavesdrop." Alicia shot the blond-haired freak a harsh glare. Claire didn't even flinch.

"I've got a...proposal for you."

Their interested were picqued.

"Shoot."

"You hate Massie, she ruined my life at OCD with her stupid red cards. Thus," she announced with a flourish of her pale-pink manicured hands. "I despise her, as well."

"So?" Dylan inquired, rolling her emerald green eyes.

"So." Claire clasped her hands. "Let's take her down."

--

"Ugh!" I whisper-yelled at a soaking-wet Derrick Harrington. He looked like a puppy dog - kicked repeatedly. It...broke my heart to see someone - who I'd hurt - this way. "I am so sorry!"

"It's no problem," he muttered, uncharacteristically shy and dishevelled. "I should go, Massie." He hitched a thumb at a sleek black limo - the very same one we'd ridden in not days ago. It seemed like forever.

He turned on the heels of his sneakers.

"No, wait!" I called to his retreating figure. "You can't leave! I apologized; I can make this right!"

"No you can't." His eyes bore into mine. "It's too late. For everything."

I gulped. "I can fix this."

"No, you can't!" he argued, his face flushing an outraged shade of red.

"Yes. I can."

My pace painfully slow, I walked up to him. All the while, a completely un-romantic rain was pouring on us. I drew my hand to his cheek; it was frozen. And so pale. Like freaking Edward Cullen. _Stop with the _Twilight _comparisons! _I told myself.

Shoulders squared, I leaned in, ignoring the pressure of the midday rain.

And kissed him.


End file.
